


Absolvisti

by Rocinan



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amputation, Blood and Injury, Eventual Fluff, Eye Trauma, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, POV First Person, POV Second Person, yes this is an AU of an AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:21:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29080017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rocinan/pseuds/Rocinan
Summary: Martín reaches the tree first. Andrés lives. And a cat's tale unfolds another way.Or, the happy ending AU ofDies Irae(which is already an AU).
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Professor | Sergio Marquina, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Tatiana, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote, Tatiana/Original Male Character
Comments: 10
Kudos: 24





	Absolvisti

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nharidy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nharidy/gifts).



> I wasn't planning to pop this out this week, but the idea came so here we are! Didn't want to disturb the tone of "Dies Irae" so this is its own thing, and you can reject it from your minds if you think it ruins the original story. It's exactly as it says, an alternate HAPPY ending to ch. 4.
> 
> Warning: Some repetition from Dies Irae, "amputation," eye gouging/trauma, disturbing imagery, awkwardness, plot convenience, mood shifting
> 
> Also @nharidy I lifted a line from your comment on ch.4 ;)

The hollow was soon filled with blood, a deep crimson that streamed through the cracks of bark, dying tips of dried leaves red. It smeared the grass below his limp feet, bled into the dirt beneath, and splattered the tree with red.

The more Andrés bled, the more eager those shadows were to flay what remained. I was sickened to the stomach, but I refused to retch. And as much I wished to tear at those thirsty roots, I knew my claws would make no difference. All Andrés wanted was that I watch him pass with some semblance of dignity.

Between the thorns and wood, I could make out the shape of ripped clothing and flesh. Once fine fabric hung in shreds. Wounds covered skin, too deep to scar or mend, slivers of white bone behind running blood. Not even a corpse of him would remain.

_“Andrés!”_

At that voice, it all stopped. I started, twisting on my heels to see who’d arrived. 

You came stumbling from the woods.

Out of breath, you trudged over a branch, stopping before our gory image. You held a hand over your chest, perhaps to quell the adrenaline or some inward pain. I doubt you cared for whatever ailed you then. But the sight of Andrés froze you to the spot. You were stiff, a statue shivering in the night, your hair tousled by wind and eyes staring straight. And as the book burned, its fire cast shades of orange upon your face. 

“Martín,” I heard myself say.

But it was not you I called. I’d remembered the holy man on our chapel glass, a saint so proud he would have looked hell’s fire in its pit, and indeed the story says that Saint Martín once walked through a lake of fire. Not one flame dared lick his skin.

You swallowed. Your lips parted, halfway between a cry. I understood then what was paining you so-- your wretched heart had chosen to thump then, pounding your ribs like a viking’s drum. And like wildfire, the sound spread through your veins. An explosion, I suppose, brought on by the sheer desperation of your being and the shock of seeing Andrés bled dry.

You, more than any of us, wanted to save him. And you, more than any of us, believed you could.

“Martín!” I cried, coming to my senses. But when I rushed to you, you stalked past me.

The lake of fire did not touch your namesake because of his holy prowess. No, I believe it didn’t dare wage war on the fire behind his skin, in his blood, the very threads of his burning essence. And you, Martín, were facing the lake of fire then. But you would sooner burn with it than let it singe another hair on _him._

“Let him go!” you barked at those roots, even as the brambles scratched your legs, “did you not hear me!?”

When I again called your name, you’d yanked out a knife, no doubt taken from one of the men of San Martín. And snarling, you hacked at all that stood in your way. Every root and branch and thorn that dared keep you apart from _him._ Blood splattered over your face, splashes of red from every cut. They’d fed on him, and now you forced them to spit his blood back out.

“Martín, stop!” I said, “it’s no use-”

But you hacked on, until at last you’d reached him. Andrés hung in the tree’s hollow, ripped asunder and bound with clinging roots, all but drowning in his own blood. And the wood gobbled on. Still you reached for him, pushing yourself over every thorn and branch as you stretched your hand out. You were drenched in as much blood as he, your face a storm as you cried his name.

You cut the root around his throat and chopped away the branches about his limbs. He crumpled then, limp against you when you wrapped your arms around his frame. Together, you fell, crashing over the broken roots and into the blood-stained dirt, tumbling until you were both no more than a mess of crimson ash.

When I came to rouse you, you were lying flat on your back, Andrés in your embrace. 

“Martín, Martín,” I said, “breathe- breathe!”

You obeyed, heaving with each gasp, brow slick with sweat and blood. Then biting a groan back, you sat up, holding Andrés to your shoulder. Cursing, you pressed a hand to the stump of his right arm. He was still breathing, however erratic, and you knew that each breath was growing fainter by the second.

“Andrés,” you whispered to him, “wake up- please-”

Your tears spilled then, but he remained still. You lay him flat, careful with his head, and as you tried to stem his wounds, I saw a root creep behind his thigh. It dug a new gash in his leg, but before more blood could spill, you snatched it up and snapped it in half.

“Get away from him!” you growled, turning your gaze on the shadows. “Touch him again and I’ll fucking destroy you.”

“Stop making empty threats,” I hissed at you, “get him out of here!”

I admit that my mind had not been in a sensible place. At the moment, Martín, I was simply shocked that you’d managed to pry Andrés from his mother’s tree. And I dared not hope for another miracle, not with his injuries as dire as they were. I forgot about the shadows then, about you, about everything save the fact that he was somehow still alive. And my frazzled brain in that instance believed we could shake the shadows off by simply leaving.

You would have obeyed me if not for the sight of the burning book. You looked as if lightning had stricken you in the head. And perhaps it had. Because you remembered your wild scheme.

“Is that it?” you asked me, “that’s what keeps him bound to these bastards?”

“Yes,” I said, “leave it, Martín. It’s useless to us now-”

“No,” you said, breaking into a hellish grin, “it’s exactly what I need.”

You did not tell me your plan until much later. So I only assumed you’d lost your mind. But you ignored my heeding and my claws at the back of your legs. You grabbed the book, ignoring the fire that licked your hands, and swiped a thumb over a prickly twig. 

Sergio arrived in time to hear you cry out. I’d mistaken it for a scream of pain. Perhaps it was. But more than that, I think it was your shout of triumph. You had always been a mad man, Martín.

You were curled on the ground when Sergio found you. You held a palm over your face, dark red rapidly slipping between the cracks of your fingers. If the sight of you shocked him, then the sight of Andrés most certainly destroyed whatever nerves the professor had left.

But before he could go to his brother, you grabbed Sergio’s sleeve, clinging tight as your fingers stained it red. 

“Martín,” he said, face littered with cuts, shocked by the blood outpouring from the hole in place of your left eye. “What- what happened?”

“The book,” you wheezed out, teeth grit with pain, “Sergio, destroy it-”

“What-”

 _“Do it!”_ you roared, and spitting out a curse, you collapsed, nearly dragging Sergio along.

Perhaps sensing what little time we had left, Sergio followed me to where the book lay. He worked fast, and within moments, the book was again alight with flames, this time a fire huge enough to consume its pages. It screamed as the fire burned, low wails that I believe only I could hear.

Narrowing my eyes, I spat at them-- _farewell._

Whatever you had done, Martín, it worked. The roots fell silent, and whatever life had possessed that wretched tree seemed to buckle and die. When I next looked at those devilish branches, they were nothing more than bloodied bark. And I know I did not imagine it when the wood itself appeared to be charred black.

When we returned to your side, you were again on your back, cackling into the wind between gasps of pain. Sergio insisted on tending you first despite your protests. You didn’t relent until he said it would do Andrés no good if you died. For makeshift bandages, he tore off his sleeves and bound your head until only half your face remained facing the air. 

For the rest of your life, you would look upon the world with a lone blue eye. And that was a price you gladly paid.

While Sergio bandaged your head, I remained by Andrés’ side. His blood continued to seep into earth, soaking dirt and grass with red. There was little I could do to rouse him, but I licked his face nonetheless, Naranjita’s instinct compelling me to lap up the tang of blood. As if I could heal him with my tongue-- a stupid thought, I know, but my body seemed to believe it with every fiber of my being. 

“You’ll be fine now,” I whispered to him, coughing out the taste of iron, “stay with me, idiot, stay with me-”

I pressed my brow to his, paws against his collar. “Andrés, please-”

 _I don’t want you to die,_ I nearly said. Decades ago, he could not stand the thought of losing me. And now, I supposed I finally understood why. Had our situation been reversed, perhaps I would have done the same. I could not lose him, Martín, not after all we had been through, and especially not after the shadows had finally left.

I’d glimpsed a life ahead, one free of blood rain and his dealings with the dead. Had it not been for that glimpse, I could have accepted his death. Not anymore. I would not allow him to leave me now, not until he flashed me another crooked grin so I could call him an idiot to his face.

I was so distracted by my ministrations that Sergio’s hands caught me by surprise. He lifted me away from Andrés, not even hissing when I dug my claws into his hands. 

“Tatiana,” he said, “we have to leave now- before they find us.”

“Who!?” I spat.

“The men from the clergy.” His spectacles were missing, so Sergio merely rubbed a thumb across his nose instead. “They won’t give up their search until morning. And Andrés-”

He gulped, blinking salt from his eye. “He needs help. Now.”

He set me down- with much struggling- and made to touch Andrés. But you moved in front, cutting the professor’s path, purposely and in my opinion, stupidly. Breaths harsh, you began gathering Andrés into your arms, pressing his head to your chest as you fought to carry him off. You staggered and blood fell from his missing arm in clumps.

Already the sleeves around your head were wet with red. You were in tremendous pain, I’m sure, and neither Sergio nor I dared imagine how much.

“Martín, stop,” Sergio ordered, coming to take his brother from your grip. “You won’t make it this way-”

You tried to push him away, no reason left in your brain. But you were no match for Sergio in that state, and it wasn’t long before he’d pulled Andrés from you and slung him atop his back. 

“Follow me,” he told us, his tone not one to be argued with.

The professor turned, the back of his shirt soon soaked with Andrés’ blood. And when he approached the woods, the cemetery clearing his path, you limped behind. I trailed at your heels, and when I cast a final glance at the burnt tree, I saw smoke rise from its grey leaves.

~~o~~

While we trudged through the forest, you collapsed a number of times. But whenever Sergio tried to help you back up, you cursed at him and forced yourself to your feet. Perhaps it was the adrenaline pushing you onwards, or maybe you found strength from the wild thrum of your heart. A noise that would never leave you be again.

Sergio led us to a cabin in a clearing, hidden behind a thicket of tall trees. It was unassuming enough, an abode of logs and bricks and not much else. He later told me it was a house he’d found in his youth, long since abandoned by whoever once lived within. It was a hiding spot, he’d said, where he’d come to write and read away from the clergy’s eye.

But when he first allowed us in, I could not have cared less for how the cabin came to be. I only cared that shelter existed. It was several times smaller than Marquina’s home, little more than the size of a tavern room. When Sergio set Andrés on the bed in the corner, I took in our surroundings: a desk of oak, bookshelves of scrolls and spines, a hearth of bricks, and a kettle by the stove. 

You started a fire. Then you found a stool, and leaning over it to catch your breath, you watched Sergio cut away the shreds of his brother’s clothes. Even for me, it was hard to tell what was skin and what was cloth under all that blood. His ribs were bent like misshapen twigs, tangled with burns of soot. The flesh between was patterned with cuts and dents, marks from every root and thorn that had fed.

“Fuck,” you hissed when you saw the state of that body, “Sergio, can you handle this?”

The professor bit his lip, turning to rummage for supplies in his bookshelf drawers. “I have to. We can’t summon a doctor- I don’t trust one not to give away our location.”

“There’s no one you trust? Not even your childhood physician.”

Sergio looked at you then, brows knit in surprise. “You know about that?”

You declined to explain. And I looked away from your glance. 

Sergio returned to the bed, rolls of gauze piled in his arms, balanced with what I read as bottles of iodine. “The man who cared for me as a child is dead. His son succeeded him, but this new doctor was never fond of Andrés.”

“So what?” you said dryly, “you’re saying all these people would let your brother die?”

Sergio looked downwards, at Andrés’ sleeping face. “Yes.”

I could tell that you wished to say more, Martín, that you had plenty of words for our village. But you knew it wouldn’t change a thing. So you bit your tongue, seething in your own anger and panic instead.

“Martín,” Sergio said, “I can’t see as well without my spectacles. I’ll need your help-”

You were by his side before he finished. “I know.”

You spent hours tending Andrés then, and perched upon the headboard, I watched you work under Sergio’s directions. You never uttered a word. 

~~o~~

After he cleaned your face and wrapped fresh bandages around your head, Sergio left to find more firewood. He also promised to return with the carriage from Toledo, the poor horse still tethered outside Marquina’s home. He would be discreet, he claimed, and we had no choice but to trust his stealth.

To dull the pain of your wound, you raided the cabin for liquor and settled on a flask of gin. I warned you against drinking it, but you’d gained new confidence from our ordeal in the cemetery, and I suspect that once this night passed, I would never be able to quell your damned ego again. Even so, your concern for Andrés superseded whatever thoughts you had for your victories. 

It rained within the hour, and when chanced a peek outside, I saw the water as just that-- clear rain. It smelled of sky, not iron. 

Then I remained curled on Andrés’ shoulder, fur warmed by fire from the hearth. My eyes slipped shut sporadically, heavily. But I didn’t fall asleep, Martín. I could still see you through the slit of my pupils.

I imagine you were shivering in that threadbare shirt. You rubbed your muddied hands, eyed the dirt crusted beneath your nails, knee bobbing over the bedside stool. But if you were cold, I doubt you noticed. You only had one thing on your mind- Andrés, and whether he would live or die. And if he perished, you would have died with him, no? I suspect he knew this, so he wished for you to live on. Living on, that would be a hard task indeed.

You rummaged his pillow through the night. I saw you shift the covers, from his waist to his chest, then finally to the chin. From where I lay, I could hear the faint thrum of his heart, behind the cracked ribs you’d so painstakingly wrapped in gauze. And because I lived, I believed he would as well.

But you could only see his ashen face and the faint remnant of blood on his lips. When you thought me asleep, you touched the bandages around his throat. No, caressed.

I watched you smooth the hair from his fevered brow; if you kissed him then, he wouldn’t have minded. But you took his hand instead, gingerly stroking the bandaged wrist. You never stroked _me_ so gently, have you? I went to sleep then. And I didn’t have to see the tears in your eye to know they were welling. I doubt they fell though- you seemed to close in on yourself, like you were trying to bundle all your grief away. I’m not wrong, am I, Martín?

When I awoke, the fire was still burning. But Andrés had shifted. Awake. I saw the white on his forearm, a coil of bandages holding his trembling limb in place. His hand was on your face, trying- and I think, failing- to brush some of the tears away.

Did the tears hurt, Martín? They must have stung your ravaged eye.

“Martín,” he whispered, eyes yet to open all the way, “how? I thought-” He wheezed. “You’re hurt… what happened, who did this-”

“Shut up,” you said, “Andrés, shut up for once in your life.”

When his arm fell, you cupped his jaw with both palms, your gaze bloodshot and wet. But your smile, I believe, was enough to silence whatever Andrés wished to say next. He could only stare, and perhaps marvel at how this man, who we knew to be so sour and fowl, could look so radiant with a simple grin. We’ve seen you grin before, but not like this, not like your face had been sculpted from light.

“You’ll be fine,” you told him feverishly, “you’ll be alright now, you’re free, you’re free. We’ll open a bottle of red wine. We’ll travel the world, get married at a monastery-”

“Ah-” He smiled at you, barely, and rasped, “No monastery would welcome me.”

“I don’t care!” You laughed. “I don’t care, Andrés! I’ll kick the doors open. And I’ll say, ‘this is the man I love, and if you’ve got a problem with that, too fucking bad.’ I’ll say it at the chapel, shout it down the bells- and your brother will be there.”

Your lips almost grazed his, and before he could react, you’d already taken his one hand in yours. “I love you-”

“Martín-”

“I love you. I love you. I love you.”

I heard him chuckle as you repeated that phrase. But I could see the fear in his eyes, the panic in his gulps. Martín, he had spent his entire life learning to live with his wounds. I don’t think he remembers what it meant to live without pain, to be regarded with anything but hate and fear. I felt his fear, I sensed it. He was afraid of healing, and maybe even more so, of being loved.

When he said- “I love you”- back, it might have been a whisper to you. But I knew it to be the world on his tongue. I would have clawed your remaining eye out if you dared take back what you said, Martín.

This was how Sergio found us when he returned, wrapped in a coat dripping from midnight rain: the two of you sobbing like children, me upon the pillow.

In his rush to reach his brother, Sergio forgot to shut the door. Wind and rain swept in behind him, and had Andrés been well, he would have called it a proverbial sign of paths washed clean. I suppose that was a way to put it-- the stains would always remain, scars and cracks that would never close, but they would no longer bleed. And whatever hold the shadows once had disappeared. 

Burned away with smoke and rain.

Sergio knelt by the edge of his bed, choking out Andrés’ name again and again, followed by a sputter of apologies and promises that he no longer had the strength to keep in. He looked nothing like a professor in that moment, again a boy weeping in the rain. I never had the chance to meet that boy. But now I did. And Andrés as well.

Andrés slid his hand from your grip then. He placed his palm behind Sergio’s head and allowed his brother to bury his face in his lap. Andrés stroked his hair, raking his fingers through ruffles of brown as he whispered assurances of his health. 

“I’ll be fine,” he said through hushed tones, “hermanito, I won’t leave you. Not again-”

You said nothing, but your arms remained around Andrés’ shoulders, as if afraid he would disappear should you let go. You were too lost in him to hear me, Martín, so I’ll repeat what I said again-- I looked at you that night and said- _thank you._

Thank you. There is nothing else I could possibly say. When we found you in Palermo, it was not Andrés who saved you. Whether you knew it or not, I believe you were the one who saved him.

~~o~~

I knew you wished to leave the cabin as soon as daylight struck, but Sergio was insistent that Andrés was not well enough to travel. And neither were you for that matter. He would not be able to move for a good week at the very least. Fatigue and fever kept him bedridden, as did the pain of his wounds no doubt. In the days that followed, he could hardly smile without wincing and each night was spent with troubled breaths.

You kept him sleeping with laudanum and whatever else Sergio supplied. For his part, the professor sheltered himself in the neighboring town some hills away. They would not know him there, he’d told us, and to me, he said he sensed that you would prefer to be with Andrés alone. 

I believe Andrés would not have minded more of his brother’s company, but you seemed perfectly happy having the cabin to yourself. In fact, you seemed to enjoy changing his dressings by the hour. And Martín, the way you and Andrés doted on one another was _sickening._

“We should visit the coast,” you told him as you spooned him soup, “maybe bring some wine and cheese for a dirty picnic. You need some meat on your bones- and you can paint the sea-”

“I’d much rather paint you,” he said with a grin.

You did not have to feed him, Martín. You knew as well as I that Andrés had been equally skilled with both hands. His left was as good as his right. But it seemed to delight him that you did. I couldn’t see why else he would claim the spoon was too heavy for him.

He had always tended himself through injury and illness, for his other option was to lie down and die. As a boy, he’d tended Sergio, and through the years, he’d often nursed you or I when the need arose. But to be cared _for?_ I believe that was an entirely new sensation to him, and not one he dared indulge lightly in. 

He would never be as concerned with his body as you were, I think, but you’d convinced him that his blood was worth your attention. That, Martín, deserves some praise in itself.

And at his invitation, you joined him in bed. You’d been prepared to sleep on a pile of blankets upon the floor, but he insisted you lie beside him. I told him he would regret it if you kicked him in your sleep, especially with the fresh wounds on his torso. Of course, he ignored my sound advice, but in your defense, you refused to touch him while you slept.

You yearned to lie against his chest, I know, just as much as he yearned to hold you with his remaining arm. But for his sake, you kept to the bed’s edge. 

“Look, gatita,” Andrés told me one morning, while you were still snoring by his head, “isn’t he handsome?”

“He looks like a pirate.”

“A captain, no doubt,” he said, turning his gaze on you, “as beautiful as the rippling sea. He must have lured countless sirens to their deaths.”

I gagged. Yes, Martín, I was happy for the two of you-- to have found love and kept it, to know that your beloved loves you as much as you him, that was indeed a marvelous thing. But you were not boys, no longer young men, and to see you two act so lovesick was grating on my nerves, perhaps because I knew you delighted in making me fume.

There were times when I fell asleep at Naranjita’s odd hours. And when I woke, it was always to the sound of your low voices. You would speak to each other of anything then, staring at the ceiling, hands entwined. Your subjects were often crude. You told him of your sexual exploits, in astounding detail I might add, and he told you of a brothel he’d fancied in the north. Your conversations sometimes turned to death-- you did not know if your parents lived nor did you care to find out, and he admitted that he no longer cared for his father’s death.

But you did not always speak of such things with him. I remember best when you told him about the constellations of your youth, how you’d climbed the mast of the sailors’ ship and mapped the stars. He was fascinated by the poetry of it. He compared it to the work he used to do in San Martín’s chapel, every sculpture a heart against his brush. And careful of his dressings, you traced his scars with your lips.

 _A constellation,_ you’d called him. _Nothing to look on with shame nor disgust._

He hadn’t replied, even as you kissed his throat, but I suspect that was a phrase he never expected to hear in this lifetime. His scars, as I’ve said, he always considered a great source of indignity, for he was too proud to use the word ‘shame.’

“That night in the cemetery,” I heard him say to you once, “I thought I’d died, gone to burn in hell. Then it dawned on me that I still lived.”

“Why?”

“I felt you-” There was a rustle, perhaps his hand coming to touch your chest, “I heard this. Like the tolling of a hundred bells. And the only place where I could hear such a thing was heaven-”

He chuckled. “But I knew I would never set foot in heaven. I thought the same of you. So that must mean I lived somehow, thanks to you-”

His voice faded, muffled by your lips against his. It was the first time your mouths met, but far from the last. You kissed hungrily, slowly, as if making up for all the time you’d nearly lost. And if not for the battered state of his body, I know Andrés would have wanted more. 

I, however, did not want to listen to his moans nor yours. So I looked to the window, putting a paw up against the frosted glass, bits of snow starting to fall. 

~~o~~

When Sergio next visited, Andrés was still asleep, but some faint color had returned to his cheeks. Deeming it best to let him rest, the professor spoke to you instead. He would arrange for the journey back to Toledo soon with the headmistress’ help. You were understandably distraught by the mention of Santa Catalina.

“Promise me one thing, professor,” you told him, “once we’re back in Toledo, you’re not letting him lose one more drop of blood.”

“I will.”

“Swear it,” you demanded, leveling a glare, “I’m serious. He’s never going to bleed for anyone, or anything, again. I’ll make sure of it.”

To say you had become protective of Andrés was quite the understatement. But I suppose the same could be said for the other way around. 

Once Sergio took his leave, you stepped out to collect more firewood, determined to keep the hearth burning for the duration of our stay. 

Andrés stirred some time after you left, and beckoned me to his side. I settled into his lap with a pur, his fingers coming to tickle my chin. Gently, I pawed the bandaged stump of his right arm. He wouldn’t admit it to you, but I could sense that he was disoriented by its loss. Afraid, even. Perhaps you felt the same about your eye, but as far as the two of you knew, these were light concerns compared with the reward of each other’s company.

“Do you hurt?” I asked him.

He smiled, weary. “Less each day.”

“That’s good. You’ll be back to your idiotic self soon enough.”

He leaned back into the pillow, small chuckles from his throat. “Truth be told, I’m growing tired of this bed.”

“Your brother plans to move you to a different bed when we’re in Toledo, so I suggest you get used to lying down for a while.”

“Ah, practical as always, gatita.”

I scoffed and crawled over his knee, careful of the dressings about his legs. Then eyes on the ceiling, Andrés remarked, “Martín has been very good to me. These last few days especially.”

“You nearly died,” I said, “everyone’s treating you like a baby bird.”

“But his entire attitude towards me is-” He paused. “-Odd. He’s said some strange things about the village, Tatiana, as if he thinks it has the power to harm me now.”

Without thinking, I replied, “He knows about your upbringing.”

Andrés did not speak for a moment. And just when I realized what I’d let slip, he muttered, “What?”

There was no point in lying then. I turned around the foot of the bed and stared at his hardened eyes. “He knows everything. I told him in Toledo.”

A laugh escaped his lips, devoid of mirth. _“Why would you do that?”_

“Why not?” I snapped back.

“You had no right,” he said, rage rising behind his tongue. But my rage had boiled first.

“I had every right! Look at me-” I swung my tail across his face. “You think I’d choose to be a fucking cat!? It was my story as much as yours!”

He laughed again. “Then why- So Martín would pity us?”

“He doesn’t pity you, you dolt!” I hopped off the bed. “And you were dying- he deserved to know why, didn’t he!?”

If I looked at him any longer, I would have clawed his tongue out. No, this was not the first argument Andrés and I had, as you know, but it was certainly one of the rare ones that had me storming away in rage. Ignoring his cries of my name, I wedged the door open and slipped out.

~~o~~

Cursing Andrés under my breath, I waded through trails of snow. I could be stubborn if I wished to be. _Don’t laugh, Martín._ Perhaps I would have gotten lost if not for Don Juan. Ah, here comes the part of my tale I hadn’t wished to share.

You see, Don Juan was a source of great awkwardness for me. You and Andrés never took much notice of him, and I certainly took great pains to omit him from my words. He was a stray I came across some days before our arrival in Toledo, though his manners spoke of a cat who’d once lived in a house.

He was a handsome thing with sleek black fur and bright, spirited eyes. If you remember, I’d died before my body ever matured enough to know womanly desires. Whether or not I would have felt those sensations would forever be a mystery. But the only person I’d ever fancied as Tatiana was Andrés, or rather, the boy he’d been. Andrés the man was more of a companion I loved like a dear brother (that is, when he wasn’t driving me mad).

But Naranjita _burned_ for Don Juan. It was a rather horrifying realization, to know that I felt such attraction for a cat. A natural-born cat. The human remaining in my brain told me not to stoop to this level, but the cat in me- in my very heart and body- told me that Don Juan and I were meant to be.

It did not help that he felt the same. He had no name to speak of, obviously, but he responded when I called him “Don Juan” and he would follow me wherever I went. He was a most patient, kind feline and yes, I understand how bizarre it is to say such a thing.

To make matters worse, I sensed that Don Juan always harbored some primitive jealousy for Andrés. _Stop laughing, Martín, or I’ll remove your other eye!_

The point here is that Don Juan had followed us from Toledo and had been lingering around the cabin since. Lost as I was, I had no choice but to follow him into the woods. And I was growing cold, even with my coat of fur. To my horror, I imagined cuddling with Don Juan for warmth.

“Take me back to Andrés,” I ordered him.

He looked at me, some trepidation in his gaze. But he walked on. Refusing. With a sigh, I kept at his heels.

Don Juan did not take me back to the cabin. He led me to a fallen tree instead, where a cloaked figure sat before a crackling fire. He was a big man, much taller than you and Andrés. He brushed some frost from his stache, and turned to us.

And what I’d mistaken for a scarf around his neck was in actuality a ferret on his shoulder. They were warming a pan of milk. 

“You’re back,” he said to Don Juan, eyes crinkling with his smile, “who’s your friend?”

Don Juan could only meow. But the man acted as if he understood and removed the pan for us. He warned us to be careful of the heat, not that it deterred Don Juan from lapping away. Then remembering his guest, Don Juan nudged me towards the milk.

“My name is Tatiana,” I told that man, curious to see how he’d react. Without Andrés by my side, I rarely spoke to other persons (I had no intention of being hung for being a witch’s familiar or whatever else cats were guilty of), but this man had piqued my interest. 

If my voice shocked him, he showed no sign of surprise. I admit, I was somewhat disappointed. But he did kneel and look me in the eye, as if such conversations were per the norm.

“Hello Tatiana. They call me Marseille.”

“Like the city?”

“Yes. Have you been?”

“Once…” Then recalling the strangeness of the situation, I blurted, “Do I not startle you? Who are you- what-”

He rubbed my head. “I’m a bard of sorts. Seen enough in this lifetime to know this- there’s little that shocks me now.”

“Is that so?” I said. 

Marseille gestured at the milk. Evidently, Don Juan was still waiting for me to join him. Slowly, I dipped my head, sipping in some drops before I again looked to Marseille.

“Do you wish to test me?” he asked, a hand upon his knee.

The ferret stood up, as if waiting for me to speak. I recognized a challenge when I saw one. “I can tell you a story, Marseille. You might know it already, but I don’t think you know the version I hold true.”

He smirked, not unkind. “Try me.”

So I did. I told him the necromancer’s tale as I knew it, albeit in much vaguer detail than I relayed to you. I don’t know where Marseille would go next or if he would ever pass on my words. He claimed to be a bard, but I doubt he enjoyed the company of humans as much as he did ferrets. Regardless, it was pleasant speaking to him. Unlike you, he never interrupted. But I knew he listened nonetheless. 

That was all I asked for.

But Marseille did not have the chance to react by the time I finished. Because Andrés had arrived, stumbling blindly towards us on a crutch of branches, a constant “Tatiana!” on his lips.

He was poorly wrapped in Sergio’s spare coat, more bandages than skin as he limped to my side. “Tatiana- Tatiana- there you are-”

“What are you doing here?” I hissed, “you should be in bed.”

“Forgive me,” he told me through chattering teeth, “I was wrong. Forgive me, Tatiana- I’ve always been a son of a bitch, and you still stood by me- you had every right and I- I’m sorry. Come back, please-”

He apologized again, his brain perhaps frozen by the snow. He hardly noticed Marseille or Don Juan for that matter. On account of the cold and his being as hurt as he was, I accepted that pathetic apology.

He grinned. Then he promptly collapsed in the snow. 

~~o~~

How should I end this passage, Martín? A lot happened afterwards, but there was nothing you did not know. I doubt you’d forget how frantic you were when Marseille returned to the cabin with Andrés in his arms. I would certainly never forget you throwing a punch at him before I introduced him. Because he knocked you right back, and you were felled with a single blow. It was the funniest thing I’d ever seen.

To make up for the trouble you caused, you invited the bard- and his ferret, or as we came to know her, Sofia- to stay for supper. You thought yourself rather magnanimous, but I think that invitation was worth nothing considering the fact that Marseille cooked. He barely spoke to you or Andrés through the meal, but he was plenty kind to Don Juan and I.

When all was said and done, Marseille bid us farewell. It was the last we saw of him.

Some days later, Sergio sent the carriage he promised, himself at the reins. He’d considered sending a driver, but thought against it in the end. That morning, you took great pains to fit Andrés into a full outfit. I doubt you would forget that moment too-- you were quite distressed by the amount of weight he’d lost and you looked upon his empty sleeve with some regret.

You wondered if you could have spared him that extra pain had you been a moment earlier. Trust me, Martín, it wouldn’t have made a difference. Andrés certainly had no regrets.

By then, you’d exchanged your bandages for a patch of black silk, a string looping about your ear and brow. It took you time to adjust to your countenance, but Andrés found you as dashing as a roguish knight. 

Time passed in a blur once we reached Toledo, Don Juan in tow, for I still felt quite awkwardly about him. There, Sergio moved you two into a flat not far from the inn you once stayed. I knew the professor wished Andrés would settle, but I also knew you and he had no intention of staying in Toledo.

You waited for Andrés to recover, and with you by his side, he considered this bliss worth every ache and sting.

~~o~~

I know how to end this now. I’ll recall a moment quite dear to you. Perhaps because you thought it fair to allow Andrés into your past, you brought him back to Palermo, a city neither of you had touched in years. By then, his wounds had since become scars, as had the skin around his right elbow.

My last memory of Palermo was a rainy night, skyward blood washing these streets. But there was only sunshine now, the sky a vivid blue and the wind a low whistle. Like the necromancer, the alchemist was little more than a story to tell at night. And no one had encountered you two in years, not since Andrés had given up his line of work.

So it was with relative peace that you showed Andrés each corner of the city you loved and hated. You brought him to Matteo’s favorite hiding spots, where your office once stood, and a gallery of paintings you believed he’d love. Andrés had been so lost in the euphoria of your joy that it never occurred to him to wonder why you brought him here.

I remember the way you’d dressed, quite different than you usually would. There was no leather coat or boot. In fact, you looked quite similar to the way you’d appeared at Sergio’s wedding to Raquel Murillo-- a creamy suit and red cravat, in opposition to the white and black of Andrés’ frock.

When noon struck, you brought Andrés to the monastery on the outskirts. He had been nervous, I know, and things rarely made him anxious. But it had been decades since he was allowed within a place of worship, decades since he’d believed himself allowed.

“Do you remember what I said?” you told him as the two of you strolled into the chapel, your voice an echo upon the walls, “about opening a bottle of red wine?”

He laughed, and casting you that slanted smile, said, “Why bring that up now?”

“I said we’d get married at a monastery. Well, here we are.”

You stepped in front of him, holding your arms out, as if conducting some invisible symphony. “I didn’t get the singing monks you wanted, but it’s better this way, no? Makes it easier to say our vows.”

“Vows?” He tilted his head, at last realizing that you were serious. Blinking, he took in the sight of the chapel. “Martín, you can’t possibly mean to- here? Now?”

You grinned at him, back outlined by a block of light. “Here’s my vow: ‘this is the man I love, and if you’ve got a problem with that, too fucking bad.’ So today, I, Martín Berrote, the Alchemist of Palermo, take Andrés de Fonollosa to be my husband in sickness and in health.”

For once, you rendered him speechless. Andrés, I believe, did not know what to say. He only had enough wits about him to do one thing. He rushed to you, wrapped his hand around your cravat, and pushed his lips against yours. 

For the part of the witnesses, myself and Don Juan, we were soon distracted by a flock of pigeons that’d gathered outside. Don Juan pounced first, and I followed, until those birds were chased into the sky. It was then that I realized they were not pigeons-- they were doves.

And as they fluttered away, you stroked Andrés’ head, fingers in his hair as he kissed on. If he could help it, I believe he would never stop.

And not a drop of rain fell.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and kudos&comments are always welcome! If you made it this far, I hope it was worth checking out! Hope this softened the blow of "Dies Irae's" canon ending :')
> 
> And this is the last thing I'll write for the Dies Irae AU (for a while at least). The saga has finally ended! I was planning to add an nsfw scene in the cabin, but it didn't work with Tatiana's pov (I don't think she would have stayed to watch it happen LOL) and Andrés probably wouldn't be up for those "activities" for a while.


End file.
